Perfect Match
by TheFarmgirlFangirl
Summary: The dynamic duo haven't had a case in days, and Sherlock is bored. Not just regular old "spray paint the wall and shoot at it" bored. More like "cease to function" bored. So John does the only thing he can think of to alleviate the boredom: He signs Sherlock up for an online dating site. Not slash, yet... Its a bit of a "five one" fic.


Perfect Match

A Johnlock Fanfiction

Summary:

Sherlock is getting bored. Not the regular `spray paint the wall and shoot at it` bored either. Insanely `refuse to function` bored. So John helps alleviate his boredom in the only way he knows how. He puts Sherlock into an online dating site.

Chapter One

"Bored"

An elongated lump of blue silk with black curls at one end and ivory feet at the other lay on the sofa of 221b Baker street, its arms wrapped around its legs, curled into a loose foetal position as it lay in its eternal stillness. John sat in his armchair, staring at the television as he sipped a cup of tea. Suddenly in a flurry of movement, the lump exploded, sending it into the air and onto its feet. John jumped, spilling burning hot tea all over his jumper. "Damnit Sherlock!" the doctor cried out, setting the empty mug down and pulling the wet sweater off of himself. He stood in his white cotton tee, angrily looking after the detective as he stalked across the flat. To be honest, he was slightly relieved that Sherlock had moved. The detective hadn't moved for hours, and he was worried that the stress of not having done anything in over a week had somehow shut him down. Like his brain had overheated while running without use.

That was the case, and the reason was the lack of one. A case, that is. It had been a week since they`d solved their last case, with Sherlock chasing the perpetrator of over fifteen murders and robberies in the last five months down an alley way, tackling him in a rugby move John hadn't seen anyone pull since his uni days, and John holding the man down when he tried to stab Sherlock. Lestrade and the rest of the Yarders were there in nearly ten minutes, and the pair was given many thanks, insults, and zeroes on their cheque.

But that was over a week ago. Ten days in fact. The first day, Sherlock and John had just relaxed, which meant Sherlock doing various experiments, and John going out on a date with some girl. The next day, Sherlock worked on the rest of his experiments, and John went on another date, with a different girl. The next five days were nearly the same, but with Sherlock slowly working less as he ran out of experiments, and John doing the same thing, a different date with a different girl. By day eight, Sherlock shut down completely, and John decided he had better stay at the flat in case Sherlock found his cigarettes or worse. So John watched television, did the shopping, drank tea, and scrolled through his blog, and Sherlock didn't move. The entire time. He of course got up to use the facilities, and check his phone, but other than that, movement was a bare minimum. John would check on his flat mate every couple hours or so, just to make sure he was still breathing, still alive. Sherlock`s eyes would stay fixated on the same patch of fabric of the sofa, without moving even when John waved his hand in front of his eyes, shone light into them, even blew into them. He rarely blinked, his breathing was shallow, he didn't respond to stimuli, only the beep of his mobile, hoping desperately that it was Lestrade. It never was, and Sherlock would go back to staring. John feared the worse, and diagnosed Sherlock with a common condition that brought out the worst symptoms he had ever seen in this man. Boredom.

So the explosion was a fairly welcome change according to John, albeit a burning, wet one, but he decided now was as good a time as any to get Sherlock to behave like a normal human being.

"Sherlock!" John called, running after his flatmate into the kitchen. He held a sandwich in front of Sherlock. "You need to eat. Now." His gaze was firm and nonnegotiable. To most.

"I`m not hungry, John. I`ve told you, I don't eat-"

"On a case. You don't eat on a case, you don't sleep on a case, and you don't do any normal human functions on a case. Well guess what Sherlock?" John threw the sandwich on the table and grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his house coat, aggressively pulling him close and raising himself to his full height by standing on his toes, still not quite meeting eye level. "We aren't on a _bloody_ _**case**_Sherlock! So eat your damned sandwich, which I made for you yesterday but you wouldn't eat, so you will eat it _**NOW**_! _**AND THAT IS A DAMNED ORDER!**_" By now, John was seething, breathing heavily, inches away from Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked almost… scared. Scared of John and his yelling, although he had no cause to be afraid. His brain was deteriorating, normally he would have just laughed at John and walked away, but now he was frightened. So he sat down (on the floor just to be difficult) and looked up at his flatmate. The doctor sighed with relief that Sherlock had decided to comply, and handed him the jam sandwich he had made, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and filling it with milk for him to wash it down with. Handing it to the man-child in front of him, he walked to the washroom they shared and grabbed a bottle of sleeping pills he`d prescribed to Sherlock.

The bottle was old, from nearly four years ago, close to when John had first moved in, and discovered that Sherlock had difficulty sleeping. Really though, the only time the man had taken them was when he had nightmares, usually after cases where he had faced Moriarty. Sherlock would wake in the middle of the night without air in his lungs, calling out to John as he struggled to breathe. John would run down the stairs and grab water on his way, nearly sprinting across the flat to tend to his flatmate. And Sherlock would cry. The stony faced, impermeable man without emotions would cry in the arms of his best friend after a nightmare. Heart wrenching sobs came from the detective`s mouth as he relived the entire dream, burying his face in John`s tee shirt, as his flatmate held him in his arms and stroked his hair, making calming hushing noises to keep his friend from going off the deep end. Once it was over, John would hand him the glass of water and two pills, and he would down both, knowing he didn't want to go back to sleep without them, although his brain was always clouded the day after. And he would beg John to stay, and John would say it was only to keep an eye on him. John had made Sherlock agree to never speak of it to anyone and to deny it outright if anyone ever asked. And as far as John knew, he hadn't.

He walked back to where Sherlock was licking jam off his fingers and downing the last of his milk. He looked up at John, then, as his head cleared, he realized the situation and remembered his dignity. He jumped up quickly, brushing crumbs from his shirt and pulling his robe around him. He cleared his throat and looked down at john, waiting for his next course of action pertaining to how to make him act normally. He glared as John opened his hand to reveal the white pills, and his eyes narrowed menacingly. "I don't need the pills, John, I am fine without them. He moved to walk past John, but the shorter man placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

"Sherlock, take the damn pills," John looked up to his friend, "please. You haven't slept in days; your brain is going to fry itself. You need to sleep. And if this is the only way for you to do that, then you will do as I say. I'm not asking as your friend, I am telling you, as your doctor. Now open up." He held the pills out, smiling as Sherlock reached a hand for them. His smile fell as Sherlock's outstretched hand continued past his, flattened on his chest, roughly pushed John to the side and ran past him, jumping over the loveseat and into his room. John swore under his breath and chased after the detective, pills clutched in his hand as he sprinted after him. Sherlock closed the door of his room as soon as John ran into sight, and was about to lock it when two hundred pounds of blonde soldier rammed into the wood, shoulder first, and sent the door wide open, the latch broken. Sherlock scrambled to get away from his flatmate, but his foot was caught by a calloused hand, and was tripped up. John sighed in relief at catching Sherlock, but when he was reminded that Sherlock had two feet, which was done by the ivory foot colliding with John's face in a desperate attempt to get away, his sigh turned to a growl. He'd let go of Sherlock's ankle in his pain, and he'd gotten away. John jumped up to see Sherlock in the opposite corner of his room, on the far edge of his bed, his arms in a ready position and ready to defend himself from the soldier.

"John, I told you, I'm fine! I don't need to sleep!" Sherlock exclaimed, bouncing side to side slightly on his bed.

"You are _not _fine Sherlock! You need to sleep and you need to sleep now!" John lunged at the detective, landed on his stomach on the bed, bouncing off as he grabbed blindly for Sherlock. He was close to the door, and john managed to pounce again, this time wrapping his arms around his fleeing flatmate's waist. The both fell to the hardwood floor, face first, John swearing as Sherlock's foot went to his knee, but still holding on.

Sherlock struggled to get away, kicking at John and yelling about how he didn't need the pills, he needed to stay awake in case Lestrade phoned, in case there was a case. John ignored this, and flipped Sherlock onto his back, straddling his flatmate with his knees pinning down Sherlock's hands, and sitting on his legs so they couldn't move. No matter how Sherlock wriggled and struggled, he couldn't move. John was much too heavy for his light frame, and he'd lost weight after not eating and not moving for such a long time. His brow furrowed as he glared at John, who was smiling triumphantly above him. "You wouldn't." Sherlock growled acid in his voice.

"Oh, I most definitely would." John retorted with a smirk before clamping his hand over Sherlock's nose. The detective could hold his breath for quite a while, but it was only a matter of time before his mouth opened to gasp for air. John popped the pills into his mouth and clamped his jaw shut, massaging the detective's throat until he swallowed. He had five minutes until Sherlock would lose consciousness, and he knew that after letting his friend go, his first move would be to run to the bathroom to regurgitate the pills. So John stayed on top of Sherlock, waiting for the soporifics to take their effect.

A murmur could be heard from under John's hand, which was still on Sherlock's face. John could feel the velvet lips against his hand, trying to speak, but tickling the sensitive skin of his palm. He lifted his hand and used it to pin Sherlock's shoulder to the hardwood floor.

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips, before muttering a quick "I really despise you John Watson. I really do." This made John struggle to suppress a smile. Although many people begged to differ, John and Sherlock's relationship was purely platonic, and they were just very close flatmates-turned-colleagues-turned-friends. And John was okay with that.

Sherlock's eyes were beginning to fall shut, slowly drifting downwards until their master blinked them awake, and then the soporifics finally took hold. Sherlock's eyes closed completely, not opening in a fight against the sleep, and his head lolled to the side. John breathed a sigh of relief. He listened to Sherlock's breath just to confirm that he was actually sleeping, then climbed off of him, his face starting to swell and his knee aching. Looking down on his blissfully unconscious flatmate, John admired the fact that Sherlock was beautiful even while sleeping. While the soldier was strictly into women and had no romantic intentions towards Sherlock, or any other man for that matter, he couldn't deny that Sherlock was in fact handsome, or as he preferred to call him, beautiful. John's next thought was as to how he would get Sherlock onto the bed. He himself was quite tired, and didn't know if he had the strength left to carry his friend. He resolved to just leave Sherlock where he was and, tucking a pillow under his head and throwing a black duvet over him, John left.

He shuffled back to his armchair, grabbed his laptop and logged into his blog, thankful that Sherlock hadn't changed the password again. He clicked the text post option and looked at the white box, wondering how to ask what he wanted to ask. His index fingers poised over the keys, he wracked his brain for proper phrasing.

Dear Readers of the Blog of Doctor John Watson;

As many of you know, Sherlock and I haven't had a proper case in days, and although I personally enjoy the relaxation of this short vacation, the pressure seems to have broken Sherlock. Apparently if he goes too long without something to do, his brain begins to malfunction and melt down. Tech support was unable to help me with this problem. If anyone can send me possible methods of fixing a defective Model H Consulting Detective circa 1979, that would be magnificent. If unable to completely repair and or restore, I'd like to know some activities we could do in London that could get his mind off of this. They need to be two person activities, as I am forced to accompany him at all times, seeing as he is basically a large child.

Note: "Just fuck him already" is not an applicable answer or suggestion, so please, none of that.

Sincerely, Doctor John H. Watson

John smiled at his little "tech support" joke, and added "please help" and "Sherlock" as tags. He hit publish, and logged off for the night, yawning as he closed the Macbook. He placed the computer on the floor and stumbled up the stairs to his bed, pulling off his trousers and laying down on the soft mattress. Sherlock was going to be hell to deal with tomorrow, John could feel it already...

Chapter Two

"Don't Call Me Sherly"


End file.
